Company
by gloriousanon
Summary: Tony is lonely and wasted beyond belief. Rating for language and... other, more delicate things. One-shot.


**Company.**

Tony Stark was good at many things. He was practically a god with his hands (which many one-night-stands could attest to), and really, his hands - and quick-thinking brain - were the backbone of everything he could do. He wasn't sure about religion, or his future, or often his sanity. He was _not_ good at social situations, and _not_ good at thinking a few steps ahead and weighing consequences. His talents and shortcomings and flaws manifested themselves in nagging thoughts and insecurities, flowing through him with frightening ease. He knew a few ways to block these thoughts, or at least redirect them for a while. His favorite method was creation - the time he spent tinkering and inventing in his many labs.

He could also fuck.

And boy, oh boy, could he _drink_.

He swirled a glass of scotch with surprising grace, watching the liquid slosh around ice. The ice clinked pleasantly against the glass. Tony loved that sound. He drained the glass not even a few seconds afterward. A refill was in order, and he opted for a larger glass. In fact, it wasn't glass at all - it was a rather large cup, one with childlike renditions of animals illustrated on it in pastel colors. He'd gotten it for Thor as a joke. He noted that the cup served more purposes than he'd thought - not only was it funny, but he got nearly triple the amount of scotch in it.

Tony stumbled and wandered aimlessly for the better part of an hour before getting bored. Bored and thoroughly wasted. He passed a television screen and caught Pepper on the screen - some footage from... well. Something or other. He squinted at the screen as though her digital image was trying to avoid his stare. She looked professional and gorgeous as ever. He felt a small, almost imperceptible pang in his gut. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered to Pepper's smiling face. Her hair trailed on a breeze and he felt it again. "Jarvis, turn this shit off," Tony snapped.

"Of course, sir."

When the screen went black, Tony watched it a second more before turning to stumble down another hallway. Then the elevator. He drank in huge gulps, burying the pain of his and Pepper's parting with the warm booze. "Feels good though," he slurred to himself. "My one true love. Alcohol. Always there."

He eventually reached the bottom of the cup. He swayed on his heels and tossed it aside, watching spots of it stain his carpet. "Remind me to have Steve clean that up, Jarvis. Got that?"

"If you weren't so impaired, sir, you could clean it on your own."

"Who the fuck taught you to sass me like that," Tony giggled. The artificial intelligence remained silent. He hiccuped and continued his journey. He felt the beginnings of a plan forming in his head. The alcohol swirled through his body and spread fire in his belly.

Before he really knew what he was doing, he found himself at Clint's door. He swayed for a long moment before losing his balance and landing against the wall. "Oof," he breathed. He reached a fist out and pounded on the archer's door relentlessly. Clint answered with a glare on his face, hair disheveled and wearing nothing but boxer briefs. They were black - Tony eyed them and thought, _yeah, he'd wear black._

"What in the fuck do you want, Stark?"

"Were you sleeping? I thought you never slept."

"All humans sleep, you fucking moron. How drunk are you? Maybe _you_ should get some sleep." With that, Clint slammed his door shut. Tony listened to the footsteps on the other side and waited til he was sure Clint was back in bed - and then pounded even harder with both fists.

Clint appeared much faster. And, judging by his expression, much angrier. Tony giggled again. "Jesus, Barton," he laughed. "Why so serious?"

"It's fucking... what, I don't know, three-something in the morning? Could you have bothered your good pal Bruce instead? Fuck."

Tony shoved his way through Clint and looked around his bedroom with little interest. There wasn't a lot - the standard bed and dresser, nightstand, television. He wondered how often Clint watched TV, if at all. "Do you like reality TV?" he asked.

Clint shook his head and rubbed an impatient hand across his forehead. "No, I don't. What do you want?"

Tony spun on his heel and promptly fell to the floor. Clint was near him in an instant, and Tony couldn't keep his eyes off of those _pecs_. "I just... want some company," Tony mumbled, trying to keep his eyes on Clint's. It was hard to do. Clint sighed heavily and grabbed Tony underneath his arms to lift him up. Tony guiltily relished the contact their bodies made as he clumsily slid up to his feet.

Tony palmed one of Clint's impressive pecs as he steadied himself. "Working out, Legolas? I don't even have these."

"That's because you don't work out." Tony watched the smirk form on Clint's lips. In a matter of seconds, he went from watching the smirk to being against those lips. Tony savored the feel of another human against his mouth, warm and wet and comforting. Clint flinched and, for a split second, couldn't figure out why he tasted scotch. And then Tony was on the floor with Clint above him, Clint's arm shoved against the smaller man's throat.

"Cl- Barton," Tony wheezed, "let-! Let g-go!"

Clint breathed heavily and removed his arm from Tony's throat. He kept him immobilized on the ground and stared hard at his rolling, watery eyes. Eyes so bloodshot he had to make an effort to separate the spider-web threads of vein from the whites. "What. The. _Fuck_. Was that?" Clint demanded.

Tony caught his breath and squirmed underneath Clint. He felt a hint of embarrassment, or shame - but it was buried under the thick layer of alcohol and warmth. Warm like Clint's body, which seemed to radiate heat as though he were the sun. Tony groaned and felt a problem in his trousers - but oh, _god_, did it feel kind of nice to grind just a tiny bit up, against Clint's muscular thigh.

"Tony -"

"Barton, please..."

Clint's breath caught in his throat. "How... how wasted _are_ you, Trust Fund?" Clint asked. Even Tony could identify the fact that Clint was much more flabbergasted than angry. They remained silent and still for a moment, Tony achingly hard and throbbing, Clint stuck in fight-mode and keeping Tony pinned to the floor. Tony inched a little upwards, against Clint's inner thigh, and sucked in a breath.

Clint was not aroused. He was angry, but Nat had made him take efforts to control that kind of thing. He beat back the urge to beat Tony sober, and instead focused on how bizarre the situation was. He knew Tony was making an effort to dry-fuck his leg - he wasn't being as subtle as he thought. And while Clint did not like men, especially an annoying child like Tony, he recognized that something was very... wrong. Tony had been much worse since his breakup. He still hung out, and tinkered, and helped 'save the world', but he hadn't been really _there_, dealing with the fallout from Pepper. He'd been drinking much more than normal. Clint had heard him breaking things and stumbling around the mansion before, and had done his fair share of spying.

Tony had all but forgotten about why or how he got into the situation. The only thing he could focus on was the searing heat that was his cock, his desire, the only thing registering beyond his intoxication. There was his erection, and there was Clint's body above him. "Clint," Tony mumbled. Clint cocked his head in encouragement, and Tony allowed his thoughts to run right past his mental filter. "Kiss me?"

Clint froze.

Tony waited, unfazed by Clint's obvious discomfort. "What?"

"Please..."

Clint heard the note of desperation and loneliness in his request. He was positive that Tony wouldn't even remember tomorrow morning. He was far too drunk... probably. So Clint took in a breath and ran through a mental string of curses. And delivered Tony's kiss.

Tony moaned against the warm, welcoming mouth. He wanted to devour it, and licked against the lips for access. Clint jerked his head back and wiped his mouth. "_No_ - no tongue! Jesus _fucking_ christ."

"I'm sorry, I won't - just -"

Clint leaned back down and kissed Tony again. It wasn't _so_ bad; he was only doing Tony a favor. A huge favor. Clint could feel Tony's cock grinding shamelessly against his thigh, quick and rough, without subtlety. He pushed through his own discomfort and embarrassment and gave Tony what he wanted; a companion, of sorts. A release.

And what a release it was. Tony was making pathetic little noises that Clint swallowed through their kissing. Somehow Tony's tongue had sneaked its way back into Clint's mouth, and he didn't pull away. He positioned himself better against the drunk billionaire, straddling his hips. Tony arched up and gasped as he felt Clint's boxer briefs. It was all it took, and Tony was cumming hard enough to see stars. He was never one for masturbation, and hadn't been feeling up to escorts or the many willing bodies lining up to have a chance with him - it made for a spectacular finish. He couldn't remember the last time he'd orgasmed from merely rubbing his cock against something; not since he was in high school.

He let him head fall back against the carpet and Clint separated their bodies. Tony took his sweet time collecting himself and getting to his feet. "I'm going to pass out," Tony said to nobody in particular. He looked back to Clint on his way out the door and flashed a lopsided grin. "Thanks, Katniss. _Verrrry _nice."

Clint said nothing, and when he closed the door, leaned against it. He ignored the slightly warm, engorged feeling in his briefs - it was _nothing_, really - and shuffled back to bed.


End file.
